Love Letters
by Devi Lethe
Summary: You aren't stupid. You can see where it comes from, the way you get off on watching him writhe, making him beg. When he's so far gone he can't bring himself to care how pathetic he sounds so long as you move, please, please...


A/N:

As a fandom, we tend to assume that Derek is self-aware enough not to continue the cycle of abuse, but if you really think about it, he's used his body and his sexuality to manipulate Erica, physically intimidated Stiles, he spends all his time with teenagers and his psychotic uncle whom he physically dominates/murders occasionally. Derek's a pretty likely candidate to be involved in an abusive relationship.

If you are in doubt as to whether or not this will trigger you, I'd strongly advise having someone you trust screen it first.

This part is from Derek's perspective. Part two will be Stiles. I may add a third if I feel there's anything missing and if you're still here, I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

You aren't stupid. You can see where it comes from, the way you get off on watching him writhe, making him beg. When he's so far gone he can't bring himself to care how pathetic he sounds so long as you move, please, _please..._

Nothing gets you hard like watching the self-loathing set in when Stiles comes down from the high, fucked out and shaking on your bed and no matter how hard he tries, he can't quite force himself not to cry if he isn't already. You don't hurt him, not really. Just bruises and frustration. Just your teeth on his skin and the shape of your hands on him like a brand, but both fade with time. Or they would if you let them. If he did. Stiles uses them like a clock, counting down the days. Always back before the last one goes, ready for more. Long fingers pressing against the greenish yellow, like a dare.

He doesn't ask, "What are you going to do next?" Doesn't ask anything, actually. He just shows up, hard and aching, staring you down like it's a game he can win.

You did that - caused that. He comes back for _you_.

Taking him apart with your mouth and your cock until what you're left with is an animal? Until he doesn't care what he has to do or say so long as you let him come? He's hardly a person at all, just a set of urges wrapped up in skin and sweat and blood when you're finished. He's absolutely _wrecked_.

It's a heady thing, that power. You can see why she took it from you.

Because taking Stiles there, showing him what he really is underneath? It's not something you can give up. When he's with you it doesn't matter how many clever tricks he has or if he's a good liar. He can't lie when he's pressing up against the hand on his chest, desperate and keening, his heart rabbit quick and ready to burst. Even better when he reeks of shame and need, fear and rage simmering just under that smooth, pale skin, so close to the surface you can taste it like the bitterness against the back of your throat. You think that might be what it feels like to get high.

You show him what that means, too. How thin his skin really is. How easily he breaks... Just a little. Just enough to taste him - copper and chemicals rushing past your lips. Some days it's all you can do not to bury your claws in his chest and _pull_ just to prove you can. Maybe that's what Kate was trying to do when she burned your family alive. _She_ was vicious. When she used to come, she'd give this little twist of her hips that made you want to die until it didn't. Until it was what pushed you over the edge, too.

Stiles is already skirting that line, already more turned on by what hurts than by what feels good and if people think you're cruel they don't know the half of what Stiles can do, of what Stiles _does_. They haven't seen him on his knees, his big, dumb eyes fixed on your face and trying not to choke or felt his broad, long hands on you when he thinks you're sleeping. He hasn't touched them like they're the ones who might break.

Stiles is young and worse, he thinks he understands.

You still jack off to it at night, in the dark. The way he came to you, inside your house where he'd never been, bright and alive in the burned out wreck of your life. The way he'd said, "No one told me. I just put the pieces together." The way you needed him to shut up before you did something _really _bad.

It wasn't like you meant to. You didn't go looking for it to happen, but when he was gasping and squirming between the wall and your body, when he was hard... And the sound he made when you put your hand on his cock. Relief and desire. Shock and fear. Of you. _For_ you, and isn't that a kick in the balls knowing all you'd had to do all that time was reach out and _take_.

But what really gets you off, is that you aren't just teaching Stiles to fuck. It's not just about working him loose for you, or not quite loose enough. Sometimes you leave him tight so it burns when you push into the searing heat of him, hotter even than the velvet plush of his mouth. It's more than bodies, more than getting drunk on the stench of sex.

It's about breaking him down, tearing him open. It's about setting his bones into the right shape so that when you're finished, what you're left with is a stronger Stiles. A sharper Stiles. A Stiles you can cut yourself on over and over.

Because Stiles? Stiles is clever, and he's learning. Even now, he'll get a hand in your hair and pull at exactly the right moment. Too hard to feel good. Almost hard enough to scratch the itch. One day, he'll know how to hurt you as badly as you hurt him. You can see it sometimes, shining like his wet cheeks when you've made him feel so good it's too much, the thing he'll be when you're finished.

It's beautiful. _He's_ beautiful, and one day, maybe after you're dead, Stiles will break someone just as beautiful. He'll rip someone else apart when you're gone.

He's so strong. Stronger than you ever were. And maybe he'll tear you apart as a prelude to something better. If you're really lucky, maybe he'll even be the one to kill you. You'd like that, probably, if he were the last thing you saw. If it were his hands inside your chest.

And really, how much more pathetic can you get? Fantasizing about a sixteen year old putting you out of his misery. What's the phrase? Living vicariously? Idiot. It still won't mean you beat her. You didn't win. You'd say Peter beat you to it but it wasn't a race. You weren't even running. And after, when you had the chance to end him? Stiles did most of the work then, too. It's only fair that you do your part now. If you're going to make a boy do your dirty work you might as well give him the tools.

Stiles is a fast learner. He'll figure it out soon enough, what you want from him. Maybe he already has. Maybe he's not learning at all.

When you think about that, you come so hard you see spots.


End file.
